


Discretion

by saliache



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: and Celebrimbor is suspicious, even when they're suspicious, he's a creepy plotty bastard, in which sauron's plans fall together, who apparently seduces ambitious jewel-smiths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron knows exactly how things will happen; his plans never go awry. Not even upon meeting very un-Fëanorian Fëanorians.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discretion

I raised my hand to knock on the door, but thought better of it and cleared my throat. The sounds of paper shuffling in the other room ceased.

“Come in!” The voice was sweeter than I expected, with none of the fire that I had come to expect from his kin. “The door’s not locked.”

I pushed experimentally; the massive block of iron-bound wood slid open on silent hinges. Perhaps they did have decent enough workmanship here, I conceded.

“I wasn’t expecting- oh. Oh.”

We assessed each other quietly. He was a scant handspan shorter than I, the sharp features of his father and grandfather set in an uncharacteristically nervous frown. His twisting hair had been bound back into a workman’s braid, which purpose he defeated by draping it over his shoulder and fiddling with its ends nervously. His robes, though fine, had been worn about a week too long and bore scorch marks from the forge.

“Did the Valar send you?” he asked bluntly.

Was that a cover story? I latched on to it; it was certainly more feasible than my own.

“Yes-”

His frown deepened. “Get out. I have already spoken to Eönwë. I will not return.”

The fires of my ambition leapt in my stomach. Perhaps this would be easier than I expected. This was no penitent exile; this was an embittered elf who saw the futility of the design of Middle-earth. New opportunities opened up before my thoughts, and I almost gave myself away. Instead, I smiled placatingly and gestured toward his desk, piled high with papers and half-finished projects.

“You should allow me to finish,” I chided gently, the very picture of a patient teacher. “I was not sent by the implacable Judge, but by the Craftsman. He understands your plight, and I have come to ease the burden.”

At that, his face drained of color in a most satisfying way and his hand snaked out to grasp the edge of the door as if bracing himself. “You lie,” he croaked.

I chose not to appear offended. “I do not,” I lied cheerfully. Unspoken went the understanding that he had no way of validating my claim.

I stood there and watched him run through his options in his head, knowing there was only one answer he could give. And he knew it, too.

“A trial,” he said shortly. “Prove you are who you claim to be, and then we’ll see. Come. I will introduce you to the others of the Mírdain.” He did not offer his hand before sliding past me and down the hall.

“I have no doubt that I will.” And I smiled at his retreating back in triumph. This would be easier than I feared. 


End file.
